Page 13 of Strap In

Helen meets her outside the hotel, Jean’s redeye and her own latte in a cardboard cupholder; surviving conferences requires an ungodly quantity of caffeine.

She hands Jean her pass on a ruby lanyard – Helen’s own, in the sunny yellow of the assistant rank, is already looped around her neck.

Such efficiency, unprompted, is the reason she’s lasted close to five years as Jean’s assistant.

While Jean will certainly write a glowing reference when the time comes, she dreads having to train a replacement.

They pass the queue together in the lobby, a sea of navy, black, and grey. The forest green of Jean’s suit sets her apart – at the start of her career she’d decided on a statement colour, bold yet tasteful, the perfect contrast to her hair. And she has never looked back.

Elizabeth Granger from Pearson Taylor catches her elbow, and they air kiss.

‘Jean Howard – fancy seeing you here! I’m surprised Peter’s missing this; ordinarily he’s the life and soul of the party.’ She flashes Jean a knowing smile. ‘Unless he’s thinking of succession?’

Jean shakes her head, demure. ‘Peter was unavoidably detained on urgent business. He sends his apologies. In the meantime, you’re stuck with me.’

‘Then perhaps we’ll see him next year?’ Elizabeth’s grey eyes sparkle with mischief as she toys with her own crimson lanyard. ‘Either way, let’s do lunch soon. My assistant’s floating around somewhere.’

‘On it.’ Helen turns on her heel, making a beeline for the cluster of young women in yellow lanyards.

Jean bids Elizabeth goodbye, a spring in her step as she approaches the cloakroom.

There’s only one woman ahead of her, in a slate grey suit.

And as Jean draws closer, she catches the unmistakable scent of cedar mingled with jasmine.

Her stomach flips, upending the quiet satisfaction brought on by Elizabeth’s speculation.

And the caffeine chooses this exact moment to hit Jean’s bloodstream, sending her heart off at a gallop.

Surely not. But the woman is tall enough to be Ava, towering above Jean even in ballet flats.

Her hair’s combed into a rigid bun, not a curl in sight, but it’s the same shade of glossy chestnut.

The woman has not only Ava’s voice but her politeness as she thanks the teenager attending the cloakroom.

Jean stands frozen in place as she turns. Ava’s eyes pop wide as they lock with Jean’s. But she’s quick to recover, that familiar grin never far away. ‘Morning,’ Ava says, and saunters away.

For a moment Jean can only watch her. When Ava had mentioned an important work event, the last place Jean’s mind went was this, a waste of time better devoted to the Leonides expansion. But here she is in corporate cosplay.

Then the spotty girl behind the desk prompts her: ‘Can I take your coat, ma’am?’

And though sweat prickles beneath Jean’s arms, averting this crisis is infinitely more important than shedding an extra layer.

The face masks, the fried food, all of it was a colossal error in judgement.

An erosion of the middle ground separating Jean’s real life from a passion that cannot, must not, live outside the four walls of that cosy little flat.

She strides after Ava, catching up just as Helen rounds the corner.

Hearing the rapid click of Jean’s heels against polished marble, Ava turns. And Jean grasps her wrist – tight enough to still the trembling in her own fingers.

Luckily for her, Ava’s too surprised to resist as Jean pulls them both into…

the utility closet, away from prying eyes.

Jean closes the door behind them. Trays with cleaning sprays, bleach, and jay cloths line metal shelves against each wall.

Above the scent of antiseptic lemon, damp permeates the air, which Jean traces back to a mop propped upright in a bucket.

Between the storage units and an industrial-sized carpet cleaner, there’s little standing room.

They’re pressed together like pilchards in a tin.

Ava’s close enough to kiss – though, as her bewilderment morphs into anger, Jean doubts it would be welcome. Not that she has any intention of trying, with representatives from every major firm and chambers in the building. Which raises the question of how and why Ava’s charity has a delegate here.

‘Jean, what the fuck?’ Ava pulls her arm free, gesturing around the dingy cupboard.

‘I could ask the same thing,’ Jean hisses. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Ava tugs on her blue lanyard, thrusting the nametag beneath Jean’s nose: Ava Harris, ACWRC / Colourblind Justice Caucus . Save for the colour it’s almost identical to the one around Jean’s own neck, printed with the LLN logo.

‘I’m here for the London Legal Network conference. Or I was until a madwoman dragged me into a fucking closet.’

‘But why? You told me you weren’t into – and here I quote – soulless corporate shit .’

Ava pinches her brow, as if holding a headache at bay. ‘Because my old supervisor got me a place. He thought it would be a good idea for my…’

‘Your what?’ Sweat prickles beneath Jean’s arms, panic bubbling over into hot flush territory.

‘I don’t owe you an explanation. I’m not here for you, Jean,’ Ava scoffs. ‘What, did you think I’d hacked your diary and gone full Glenn Close?’

‘No.’ Jean folds both arms tight around herself. ‘I just – I panicked, okay?’

‘Yeah, I got that from being dragged into a cupboard against my will. Which, by the way, isn’t exactly super discreet .’ Ava looks at her for a long moment, and Jean’s still reaching for an adequate response when she relents, full lips twitching. ‘You’ve put us in the closet, get it?’

Unfortunately, Jean does – but having lost the high ground, she’s in no position to bitch about a crack regarding her sexuality.

And besides, Ava’s humour works out in her favour.

‘I’m sorry; I’m being completely crazy.’ Jean covers her face as a terrible thought occurs – after all, she’s jeopardised her dignity and sex arrangement by acting unhinged. ‘Oh god. I’m Glenn Close, aren’t I?’

Ava’s hand rests against her back. ‘Yeah. But mostly you’re Damages Glenn Close, not Fatal Attraction Glenn Close. And Patty Hewes was hot.’

‘Never seen it.’ Perhaps if Jean keeps her face covered long enough, the floor will simply open up and swallow her whole.

‘Well,’ Ava says, ‘we could stream Damages sometime. If you’ll watch all five seasons with me, maybe we can forget about this.’

Night after night curled up on Ava’s sofa… For the first time in Jean’s life, she isn’t sorry about having no leverage. ‘Alright. But how do we get out of here?’

Footsteps and voices echo through the corridor. And Jean’s panic rises on the tide of chatter.

‘I don’t know. You were the one who got us into this mess.’ Ava sighs. ‘Maybe we could wait until the opening session’s started and sneak out.’

An urgent knock sounds on the door. And Jean pulls away, tipping the mop in her haste.

‘Ms Howard?’ Helen’s voice is laced with concern. ‘I’ve got the shirt you requested. There’s an M&S across the street. And I’m so sorry about the coffee, it won’t happen again.’

‘Holy shit,’ Ava says. ‘Your assistant’s a genius.’

Then she slips out of the closet. And Helen takes her place, green carrier bag in hand. ‘Give me your coat, your blazer, and your shirt.’

Jean does as she’s told, handing over her coat then turning round to preserve her modesty. ‘Helen, I can explain. It—’

‘Put this on.’ The blouse Helen sourced is similar in style and cut to the one she was wearing, but crisp cotton instead of silk, and white rather than champagne coloured.

It’s of Jean’s usual size and aesthetic, yet noticeably different to the one she’d arrived in.

As an executive assistant, Helen has made a point of learning all about Jean’s preferences – but now Helen knows, or at least has reason to suspect, more than Jean ever intended to reveal.

‘This isn’t what it looks like. It’s not what you’re thinking.’

As Jean buttons the new blouse, Helen produces a bottle of iced coffee.

And – holding Jean’s discarded top over the bucket – she splashes dark liquid over the silk.

Helen speaks as she examines her handiwork.

‘I’d assumed you wanted to talk to her about badminton.

You know, I’m partial to an odd game myself. ’

Jean’s hand slips, and she fumbles the pearly button. ‘Y-you are?’

‘Sometimes.’ Helen scrubs the top until the stain sinks in. ‘It’s not the only sport I’m into, but I don’t judge anyone who plays.’

‘I see.’ Jean takes her blazer back, watching Helen drop the sodden blouse into the M&S bag.

‘Good. Then we don’t need to discuss this again, Ms Howard.’ Helen produces a tiny pair of scissors from her handbag and snips the label free, complete with the tag’s stem.

‘Thank you, Helen,’ Jean says, meaning it.

‘You’re welcome.’ Helen leads the way out into the corridor, now deserted.

‘The opening talk just started – we should be able to slip in at the back. Then you’re due in the Wren Room for the Knowledge Exchange workshop – Mr Dennings personally added it to your agenda, but the rest of the day is yours.

I’ll drop off your coat after this talk, then head to the Hadid Room with the other assistants. ’

Jean accepts the proffered itinerary as they climb the stairs. ‘That all sounds great.’ Having come this close to disaster, even Peter’s mandatory fun doesn’t seem so terrible.